Born for This Season

 

There’s a soft ache in the air lately—the kind that comes at the edge of seasons. The days are getting shorter, the nights cooler. The garden that once danced with the brightness of summer is now slowly fading into stillness. And just outside my window, I’ve been watching the last of the monarch butterflies.

These aren’t the ones that flit briefly from bloom to bloom, mating and laying eggs and living short, brilliant lives. No, these are the late hatchers—the super generation. They’re born different. Built for endurance. Called to a harder path.

And in their quiet preparation, I see myself.

This year has carried a weight I didn’t expect. Things have changed—some subtly, some suddenly. Responsibilities shifted. Dreams were set down. Strength was tested. And if I’m honest, I don’t quite know what’s ahead. There’s a sadness in letting go of what once was—of a season that felt fuller, lighter. There’s grief in the passing of time, and uncertainty in the days to come.

“So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.”
— Psalm 90:12, ESV

But even in that sadness, I can’t help but be struck by the design of the monarch.

These late-season butterflies don’t live for a few short weeks like their summer sisters. They live for up to eight months—and not to stay still. They travel up to 3,000 miles to overwinter in Mexico, in forests they’ve never seen, drawn only by instinct and God's design. Their wings are thicker. Their bodies are heavier. Their purpose is different—not lesser, not greater, just uniquely theirs.

And maybe so is mine.

“But as it is, God arranged the members in the body, each one of them, as he chose.”
— 1 Corinthians 12:18, ESV

We, too, are designed with purpose. Some of us were made for quick seasons of bloom. Others—like the late butterflies—are shaped by God for endurance. For the long path. For carrying on when others have gone before. For sustaining life through spiritual winter. For laying foundations future generations will build on.

And that takes strength. Not the kind born of ease—but the kind born of struggle.

“Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope.”
— Romans 5:3–4, ESV

I don’t feel strong every day. Maybe you don’t either. Maybe you’re weary from holding so much for so long. Maybe this year hasn’t been what you hoped it would be. Maybe you’re grieving what summer represented—joy, connection, a season that now feels lost in time.

But maybe… like the monarch… you were born for the long flight.

“Have you not known? Have you not heard?
The Lord is the everlasting God,
the Creator of the ends of the earth.
He does not faint or grow weary;
his understanding is unsearchable.
He gives power to the faint,
and to him who has no might he increases strength.”
— Isaiah 40:28–29, ESV

The monarch doesn't compare itself to the earlier butterflies. It doesn’t wish for a shorter, easier life. It simply flies—because it was made to.

I want to live like that.

Let me gather strength where I can. Let me feast on the goodness of God now, while the blooms remain. Let me rest in His presence before the journey ahead. And when it’s time, let me rise—wing by wing—into whatever comes next, trusting that He who designed me knows the way.

“Let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith…”
— Hebrews 12:1–2a, ESV

Even as summer fades, even when the path is unknown, I will trust in the One who formed me for this season.

I am not behind.
I am not forgotten.
I am not weak.

I am simply one of the last butterflies—
and I was born for the long flight.

Handing in the Key One Last Time

 

The call finally came. The familiar name would no longer appear on the work schedule. The routine that had shaped life for so long—the midnight shifts, the long days, the rhythm of work and travel—was ending. The key was turned in. The mic was handed over. The train engine was climbed down from for the very last time. After seventeen years, a chapter quietly closed—but with a weight that words can hardly describe.

No more early mornings or late nights swallowed by fourteen-hour days. No more quick conversations with the same coworkers who had become part of life’s rhythm. Just silence. Space. And an unexpected emptiness.

At first, that emptiness was filled with sleep. After years of running hard, the body finally had permission to rest. The bed seemed to call more loudly than any alarm clock ever did. Sleep was a comfort, a reward, even a way to avoid the question lingering beneath the surface: What do I do with myself now?

And yet, with every distant train horn, every click-clack at a crossing, and the sight of his old engine sitting at a remote yard—freshly painted, polished, waiting for use—he recalls what has been lost. That engine, ready but idle, mirrors his own heart: he wants to be used, to serve, to contribute—but unlike the engine, no fresh coat of paint or reworking can be done on his own body. Limitations now remind him that he must find purpose differently than before. The rhythm he once knew—the hum of the engine, the weight of responsibility, the familiar faces at every stop—now echoes in memory, a melody of what was and a whisper of what still could be.

This is more than losing a job title. It’s losing identity, rhythm, and community. It’s saying goodbye not only to a career, but to the version of oneself that lived by schedules, deadlines, and responsibilities. The loss is real, and so is the grief.

But here’s the truth—sleep restores the body, but it cannot renew the soul. Purpose cannot be found under the covers of a bed, but in the calling God places before us. Scripture reminds us: “So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom” (Psalm 90:12, ESV). Every day matters, even if it no longer looks like what it used to.

For everything there is a season (Ecclesiastes 3:1). Work had its season. Now begins another. And while the shift feels jarring, it is not purposeless. God never retires His children from His calling. He simply redirects it.

Some have found that new direction in prayer, like Anna the prophetess who devoted her later years to worship (Luke 2:36–38). Others discover it in investing in family, mentoring the next generation, volunteering in the community, creating, or simply learning to enjoy life in slower rhythms.

As the spouse, I am feeling a mixture of awe, pride, and a quiet ache. I watch him step away from the routine that has defined him for seventeen years, and my heart swells with gratitude for his dedication—but also tugs with the awareness of what he’s losing. I feel the weight of the hours he will no longer spend on the train, the faces he will no longer see daily, the rhythm that shaped both our lives. And yet, I also feel hope. Hope that these empty hours can become spaces for rest, reflection, and rediscovery. I want to support him fully—without rushing, controlling, or judging the pace at which he moves forward. My prayer is to walk alongside him with patience, encouragement, and love, trusting God to guide each step in this new chapter.

So what do we do with the fourteen hours once consumed by work and travel?

• We rest—but we don’t stay asleep forever.

• We rediscover passions and gifts that work once pushed aside.

• We reconnect with God, with each other, and with community.

• We renew our spirits by seeing this season not as an ending, but as an invitation.

The key, the mic, the train engine—those belonged to one chapter. Now, God places new tools in hand: time, wisdom, faith, and love. The chapter of work has closed, but the story isn’t over. The next page is waiting to be written, guided not by timetables and alarms, but by the compass of God’s faithful hand.

And perhaps the most beautiful part of this transition is the reminder that, like the engine sitting idle in the yard—freshly painted and waiting—there is still life to be lived, purpose to be discovered, and love to give. Bruce, my love, you may not have a fresh coat of paint for your body, but your heart, your hands, your faith, and your love continue to shine brightly. Here’s to the new season, the next track, and all the ways God will still use you.

With love
always,
Christina

The Gift of Self-Control: Standing Firm When the Storms Come

 

 As I continued to contemplate the sand being washed away around our pool, I found myself thinking about how easy it is to fall into a victim mentality. It would be so tempting to give up—walk away from the piles of paperwork, doctor visit reports, upcoming appointments, and the discipline required for daily routines. The temptation to retreat into mind-soothing activities, to numb the discomfort, is strong. Yet, God calls us to stand firm, even when the storm makes everything feel fragile.

Self-control is one of the firm foundations that keeps us steady in these moments. It’s a gift from God, a protective barrier that shields us from being swept away by temptation, addictive impulses, or the easy lure of instant relief.

Without self-control, pleasure becomes a tyrant. Gambling, excessive use of social media, alcohol, pornography, or other dopamine-driven behaviors promise short-term relief but often leave us trapped in cycles of shame, secrecy, and addiction.

The Apostle Paul warns in 1 Corinthians 6:12 (ESV):

“All things are lawful for me,” but not all things are helpful. “All things are lawful for me,” but I will not be enslaved by anything.”

Self-control allows us to enjoy life without being enslaved by it. It gives us the freedom to navigate life’s storms without being tossed by every impulse or fleeting desire.

Ed Welch, in his book Blame It on the Brain, reminds us that while our biology and brain chemistry are real factors in addiction, they are not the whole story. The brain may be the stage where these struggles play out, but the heart is the actor.

This is where balance is so important. Sometimes people need medical care—withdrawal support, treatment for chemical imbalances, or guidance from a wise doctor. God gave us bodies, and caring for them matters. But medical treatment alone cannot change the heart. True self-control is not just willpower or biology; it is the fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5:22–23).

That means even when the storm inside us feels chemical, physical, or overwhelming, God’s Spirit gives us hope and a way forward.

It’s easy to fall into the victim narrative: “I can’t help it; my trauma made me this way,” or “I was born with a temperament to addiction.” These realities may be true, but Scripture never lets us stop there. God calls us to responsibility, to a deliberate choice to walk in freedom:

“For God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.” (2 Timothy 1:7, ESV)

Self-control is not merely about restraint; it is a fruit of the Spirit that grows as we surrender to God. The same storms that expose weaknesses can also cultivate resilience, character, and hope when we respond in obedience.

Self-control begins in childhood, but our culture often looks for quick fixes—either by medicating children or by excusing their behavior, allowing them to act out without consequences. Both approaches fail to teach true self-regulation.

Children need age-appropriate expectations, clear boundaries, and guidance in managing impulses. Excusing unwanted behavior, ignoring it, or constantly cushioning them from discomfort produces adults who struggle with responsibility, self-control, and the natural consequences of choices.

Proverbs 22:6 (ESV) reminds us:

“Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it.”

By holding children accountable in loving ways, we teach them resilience, patience, and the ability to make godly choices—a foundation that will help them navigate life’s storms with strength.

Shame can destroy self-control. When we feel unworthy or fear rejection, we hide our struggles, perpetuating cycles of addiction, pleasure-seeking, or unhealthy habits. But God calls us out of secrecy into community and accountability:

“Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed.” (James 5:16, ESV)

Honesty with God and with trusted people allows shame to lose its grip. Community becomes the space where our self-control is strengthened, where God’s grace is tangible, and where healing begins.

 

Practical Steps to Grow Self-Control

1. Start small – choose one habit or behavior to focus on at a time. Daily consistency is more powerful than occasional intensity.
2. Pray for strength – self-control is a gift from the Spirit. Ask Him daily to guide your choices.
3. Seek accountability – share your struggles with trusted people who will pray, encourage, and hold you accountable.
4. Replace idols with God-centered habits – avoid swapping one pleasure-seeking behavior for another. Engage in worship, service, or Scripture instead.
5. Celebrate small victories – each choice to honor God strengthens your foundation for the storms ahead.

 

Self-control is not a restriction; it is freedom. It is the rock that steadies us when storms come. It is the gift of God that allows us to live in peace, not in slavery to fleeting pleasures. By embracing this gift—for ourselves and for the children we guide—we can navigate life’s storms with wisdom, stability, and hope.

When the Monster of Despair Breaks Loose

 The weekend was peaceful. The sun danced on the lake’s surface, laughter echoed from boats and picnic tables, and families enjoyed the gift of a late summer day. Children played in the water, neighbors waved from docks, and it seemed—for a few hours—that all was well with the world.

And then, without warning, tragedy struck.

Sometimes it comes through suicide. Sometimes through murder. Sometimes through reckless, careless disregard for the life of another. However it happens, when life is suddenly cut short, the sound of joy turns into screams, sirens pierce the calm, and a heavy black cloud falls—not only over the family, but over responders, friends, and witnesses who will never forget what they saw.

Beneath the surface of many lives, ripples of stress, grief, depression, and anger move quietly. At first, they seem manageable—just undercurrents in the waters of daily life. But in reality, a monster lurks there, hidden and waiting. Then, without warning, it breaks loose. Someone we love is pulled under by the monster of despair. The shock is devastating, and in its pull, families and communities are dragged unwillingly into the same dark waters—gasping for air, overwhelmed with questions, and weighed down by sorrow.

The question for us becomes: How do we not stay there? How do we keep from being swallowed by the same darkness? And how can we guard those we love from being dragged under as well?

This kind of trauma doesn’t stop with the moment itself. It shakes the foundation of families, wounds children in ways they cannot yet express, and unsettles entire communities. It leaves a wake of unanswered questions that echo:

• Why did this happen?

• Could it have been prevented?

• Where was God?

• How do we move forward when nothing makes sense?

These questions matter. But they also remind us of the need for patience and grace. In times of crisis, we must be careful not to spread gossip, not to jump to conclusions, and not to assign blame too quickly. Trauma needs space for honesty, lament, and the slow work of healing.

God’s Word tells us that life is precious, knit together in the womb by His own hands (Psalm 139:13–16). To Him, no life is meaningless. Every breath is sacred, every moment held in His care.

Yet Scripture does not ignore the depths of despair. Elijah sat under a tree and prayed, “It is enough; now, O LORD, take away my life” (1 Kings 19:4). Job cried out, “Why did I not die at birth, come out from the womb and expire?” (Job 3:11). Jonah begged, “Therefore now, O LORD, please take my life from me, for it is better for me to die than to live” (Jonah 4:3).

Even the faithful struggled with crushing hopelessness. But in every case, God did not cast them away. He met them in their darkest places—sending an angel to strengthen Elijah, restoring Job, and teaching Jonah about His compassion.

Suicide is never God’s plan. Neither is violence or careless disregard for life. But neither is despair beyond His reach.

When tragedy strikes—whether suicide, murder, or reckless loss of life—we often wonder how God sees it. Does He turn His face away? Does He condemn? Scripture paints a different picture:

“The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” (Psalm 34:18)
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” (Psalm 147:3)
Jesus Himself is described as “a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3).

God responds not with coldness, but with compassion. At the cross, Christ bore the full weight of sin, death, and despair so that even in our darkest moments, hope would not be lost. His heart breaks with ours, and He offers comfort to the grieving and mercy for the lost.

When such tragedy shakes a family and community, our response matters deeply. Too often, silence or gossip deepens the wound. Instead, we are called to bring the presence of Christ into the pain.

• Be present. Sit with the grieving, even in silence. Presence often speaks louder than words.

• Listen without judgment. Families do not need quick answers or clichés—they need compassion.

• Guard our words. Refuse gossip. Resist speculation. Allow space for truth and healing to surface in God’s time.

• Offer practical help. Meals, childcare, financial aid, and steady friendship are powerful acts of love.

• Pray faithfully. Lift up the brokenhearted when they cannot lift themselves.

“Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.” (Galatians 6:2)

Healing after murder, suicide, or reckless loss of life is not quick. Survivors wrestle with guilt, anger, abandonment, and unrelenting grief. Children especially may silently carry the weight of questions they cannot voice.

• Encourage professional and pastoral care—healing often requires both.

• Create safe spaces for grief. Give permission to cry, to question, and to lament before God.

• Remind them of their worth. The tragedy does not define their identity—Christ does.

• Build rituals of remembrance. Writing letters, lighting candles, or sharing stories can bring peace.

• Allow time. Trauma healing cannot be rushed. Give people space to process without pressure.

Suicide often gives warning signs:

• Expressions of hopelessness or feeling like a burden

• Withdrawal from relationships and activities

• Sudden mood shifts—either sinking despair or an eerie calm

• Giving away possessions or speaking of “final” arrangements

When we notice these signs, we must act. Ask gently but directly: “Are you thinking about hurting yourself?” Offer to connect them with professional help, a pastor, or a crisis line. Do not dismiss their pain. Showing someone that they are seen and valued can make the difference between life and death.

A weekend on the lake should never have ended in tragedy. But even in the shadow of despair and senseless loss, God’s light still shines. He is the One who turns mourning into dancing, who gives beauty for ashes, and who promises a day when death and sorrow will be no more.

“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” (Revelation 21:4)

Our role, as His people, is to stand with the broken, to speak life where death has shouted, and to remind our hurting world that there is hope in Christ.

Because even when joy turns suddenly into tragedy, even when the monster of despair breaks loose, His promise remains: light still overcomes darkness.

Resources for Hope and Help

If you or someone you love is struggling with thoughts of suicide, please know that you are not alone. Help is available—right now.

• National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (U.S.): Dial 988 (24/7, confidential, free)

• Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741 to connect with a trained counselor

• Pastoral and Faith-Based Support: Reach out to your local church, pastor, or Christian counselor who can pray with you and walk alongside you https://www.loveled.org

• For children and teens: The 988 Lifeline also connects to youth-specific crisis counselors trained to respond with understanding

Above all, remember: God sees you. He loves you. Your life has purpose and worth beyond what you can imagine.

Dancing in God’s Design: A Luau of Love and Creation

When we consider the truth that we are made in the image of God, we often go wrong in two directions. Some think too highly of themselves, acting as if they are God. Others think too little of themselves, treating life and their own worth with little respect. Yet both errors miss the heart of the matter: being created in the image of God is a gift of grace.

God did not need to create humanity. He chose to. Out of love, He gave us the dignity of bearing His image.

“Then God said, ‘Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. And let them have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over the livestock and over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.’ So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.”
(Genesis 1:26–27, ESV)

Genesis 3 explains both our purpose and our struggle—why we are here and why we so often miss it.

The reality is that every human being—no matter age, appearance, ability, or social standing—is equally made in God’s image. This was not a gift given to some but denied to others. It is universal. It is not based on achievement, status, wealth, intelligence, or physical ability. If you are human, you bear the image of God.

“With it we bless our Lord and Father, and with it we curse people who are made in the likeness of God.”
(James 3:9, ESV)

This truth should radically shape the way we view people. Children, unborn, the elderly, those born with disabilities, those from different cultures and backgrounds—all stand on equal ground in dignity and worth. There is no hierarchy here. There is no superiority. We are one human race, united by the Creator’s lavish gift.

“The rich and the poor meet together; the LORD is the Maker of them all.”
(Proverbs 22:2, ESV)

Though we are not God, He gave us purpose. In Genesis, Adam and Eve were tasked with work—stewarding creation, bringing order, and living fruitfully within the framework God provided.

“The LORD God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to work it and keep it.”
(Genesis 2:15, ESV)

We were never meant to sit back passively; we were given direction and patterns to follow. But we are not creators in the same sense as God. Only He creates from nothing. We are sub-creators, shaping and forming what God has already given. This both confirms our role in creation and reminds us of our limitations: we are dependent creatures, reflections of His glory, not the source of it.

I was reminded of this truth through our experience with a Luau. While visiting Hawaii, we had hoped to attend one of these cultural events—an evening filled with flowers, music, dance, and fire. Yet, the first event was cancelled because of a storm, and we never had the chance to experience it there.

But now, close to home, we’ve been given another opportunity. We will get to enjoy the beauty of this celebration—not in the islands where it began, but on the mainland. And as I think about it, that reflects something deeper.

The weaving of flowers into garlands, the rhythm of music, the movement of dance, the wonder of fire—all of it testifies to the creativity of human hands and minds. But every part of it still depends on God. The flowers, the fire, the human body itself—all are raw materials He has given. We do not create out of nothing. We shape, arrange, and craft from what the Creator has already supplied.

Even in the disappointment of the storm in Hawaii, God has given us another chance to enjoy the beauty of human creativity closer to home. And perhaps that is the point—whether in Hawaii or in our own community, the beauty isn’t ultimately about the location, but about the reflection of God’s image in human creativity. We create because He first created.

“For from him and through him and to him are all things. To him be glory forever. Amen.”
(Romans 11:36, ESV)

In many ways, this reflection also connects to the celebration of our marriage. Just as the Luau is filled with music, flowers, and dance, our wedding was filled with beauty, laughter, and community. Marriage itself is one of God’s first gifts to humanity — a covenant relationship that reflects His image in a unique way.

“Therefore a man shall leave his father and his mother and hold fast to his wife, and they shall become one flesh.”
(Genesis 2:24, ESV)

The joy we shared that night was not something we created out of nothing — it was the weaving together of God’s good gifts: love, companionship, family, and the blessing of shared life. Just like the Luau, our celebration reflected the truth that we create beauty only because God first created and gave.

C. S. Lewis, in The Abolition of Man, warns of the danger when a small group of people claim the authority to define what “improvement” means for humanity. What one culture calls progress, another might not. When we forget our dependence on the Creator, we risk reshaping humanity according to narrow, shifting standards—losing sight of the good of all people.

Instead, our creativity and progress must remain in submission to God, the true source of meaning and goodness.

“Know that the LORD, he is God! It is he who made us, and we are his; we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture.”
(Psalm 100:3, ESV)

If we are made in the image of God, then we are not God. We derive our purpose from Him, not from ourselves.

C. S. Lewis captures this balance beautifully in Prince Caspian:

        "You come of the Lord Adam and the Lady Eve, said Aslan. And that is both honor enough to erect the head of the poorest beggar, and shame enough to bow the shoulders of the greatest emperor on earth. Be content."

To be human is both a staggering honor and a sobering humility. We are not the rulers of the universe, yet we alone bear the privilege of being made in God’s image.

“What is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him? Yet you have made him a little lower than the heavenly beings and crowned him with glory and honor. You have given him dominion over the works of your hands; you have put all things under his feet.”
(Psalm 8:4–6, ESV)

As I reflect on the gift of being made in God’s image, on the beauty of human creativity, and on the joy of celebrating our marriage, my heart overflows with gratitude. Every song, every dance, every shared smile and hand held is a reminder that God has entrusted us with the privilege of co-creating His beauty in the world. Life may bring storms that cancel plans or shift our expectations, but His grace remains, allowing us to see, celebrate, and participate in His good design in ways that fill our hearts with wonder and love. Truly, every moment of creativity, connection, and celebration is a reflection of the Creator who made us for relationship, joy, and purpose.

Dressing Up and Living Different

 

This past weekend Bruce and I did something a little out of the ordinary—we went to a Renaissance Fair. It wasn’t just a last-minute idea either. It took us months to prepare, because we wanted to do more than just attend. We wanted to dress up and really be part of the experience.

At first, we planned to go as pirates. I hunted through second-hand stores, yard sales, and clearance racks and managed to piece together almost everything we needed. We weren’t about to spend hundreds of dollars for something that only happens once a year! Eventually, though, our pirate idea shifted into something a little different. On Saturday, we went as pirate invaders, and on Sunday, I pulled out my Lady costume. It ended up being the best of both worlds.

The entire weekend was so much fun. We met new people, discovered shows we’d never seen before, and got to step into a different time period for a couple of days. But as I thought more about it later, something struck me. Dressing up as a pirate or a Lady was fun for the day, but in reality, I wasn’t either of those things. I was pretending. I was slipping into a role that didn’t actually belong to me.

That got me thinking. Isn’t it interesting how easy it is to put on a “costume” in real life? Sometimes, without even realizing it, we adjust our words, our attitudes, or even our values to fit in with the people around us. Just like costumes at a fair, we can end up playing roles that don’t reflect who we really are—or worse, roles that are contrary to who God has called us to be.

The apostle Paul addresses this very idea in Romans 12:2:

“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.”

The world is constantly pressuring us to conform, to wear its “costumes,” and to blend in with its values. But God calls us to something different—true transformation. That doesn’t happen by pretending, but by allowing God to reshape us from the inside out.

This sometimes requires us to make hard choices. We may need to step away from relationships that drag us down or pull us toward compromise. Even with family, where we can’t (and shouldn’t) sever ties, we may need to set boundaries so their influence doesn’t outweigh God’s.

Paul reminds us again in Colossians 3:1, 5, and 12–13:

“If then you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God… Put to death therefore what is earthly in you: sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry… Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience, bearing with one another and, if one has a complaint against another, forgiving each other; as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive.”

Notice how Paul uses clothing language: “put on.” Not as a costume, but as part of our true identity in Christ. What we wear spiritually should not be something we take off at the end of the day—it should reflect who we really are.

Thankfully, God has not left us unequipped in a world full of pressure and temptation. He has given us tools to live differently:

1. Scripture – God’s Word renews our minds and resets our priorities to align with His.

2. Service to others – Serving keeps us grounded, helps us imitate Christ, and shifts our focus outward.

3. Worship through music – Singing praises lifts our hearts and reminds us of God’s greatness.

4. Fellowship with believers – We need community. Other believers encourage us, strengthen us, and help keep us accountable.

When we lean into these tools, we find that we don’t need to pretend. We don’t need to “dress up” as good Christians or put on a mask to fit into the world. Instead, God’s Spirit transforms us, His love overcomes our impulses, His family of believers strengthens us, and His presence gives us courage.

Our weekend at the Renaissance Fair was playful and fun. It was good to step into a costume for a couple of days. But when the costumes came off, I was reminded of something much more important: in everyday life, we are called not to play a role, but to live out our true identity in Christ.

So let’s be careful what we “put on.” Let’s not settle for pretending when God has called us to be transformed.

Foundations of Godly Habits: Building on Rock, Not Sand

 

Last night, as the storm rolled in, I sat watching the sand around our pool wash away. The rain pounded hard, and the soil shifted little by little. What once looked firm and secure now appeared fragile, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the foundation might give way.

It made me think about life. We all go through storms—sometimes they come as sudden downpours, other times as long, exhausting seasons that seem to erode us little by little. If our lives are not built on a strong foundation, if our habits are not healthy and stable, the storm will quickly expose the weakness of our footing.

Healthy habits are like the firm ground that holds us steady when storms come. Without them, it’s easy to slip into unhealthy cycles: grabbing at quick fixes, self-medicating with substances, or turning to destructive behaviors to cope. But with a strong foundation—rooted in God’s truth and practical self-discipline—we can withstand the storm without being washed away.

Bad habits never announce themselves with chains. They creep in slowly, often guarded by excuses:

• “It’s not hurting anyone.”
• “I can stop whenever I want.”
• “I’ve done this for thirty years—it would take the next thirty to change.”
• “At least it’s better than what others are doing.”

But like the storm that washed away the sand around my pool, these excuses slowly erode stability. They leave us fragile, unable to stand when life’s pressures rise.

Our culture loves shortcuts. A pill promises instant focus. A new diet promises fast results. Gambling promises a rush of excitement. Social media offers fleeting validation. Pornography and sexual indulgence promise relief from loneliness or stress.

But none of these fix the foundation. At best, they swap one behavior for another. At worst, they enslave us further.

This is why Jay Adams, in How to Help People Change, reminds us that real transformation is not surface-level behavior modification—it’s a change of the heart. His biblical framework is clear:

1. Put Off – Name the addiction honestly. Repent and turn away from it.
2. Renew the Mind – Let God’s truth reshape how we see ourselves, our desires, and our habits.
3. Put On – Replace destructive patterns with godly ones—habits rooted in obedience and trust.

Romans 12:2 calls us to this kind of transformation:

“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.”

Self-control isn’t simply “gritting our teeth until we succeed.” Scripture says it is a fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5:22–23). That means it grows as we surrender to God daily. When we resist destructive cravings, we’re not just saying no—we’re saying yes to something better: peace, freedom, and alignment with God’s will.

But this is not merely a spiritual issue in isolation. Sometimes the body has been affected—imbalances, trauma, or chemical damage may need to be addressed with the help of doctors. Medical care can support the process, but only Christ renews the heart. True healing brings both body and soul under His care.

These truths matter in our homes and schools too. Too often, children showing normal immaturity or restlessness are quickly medicated to make classrooms “manageable.” But a medicated classroom does not produce young adults who can regulate themselves.

Proverbs 22:6 reminds us:

“Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it.”

Children need loving discipline, clear expectations, and training in self-control. Excusing or glossing over harmful behaviors—or masking them with medication—does not lay a foundation. It builds on shifting sand.

One of the strongest chains of bad habits aka addiction is shame. It whispers: “You’ll be rejected if anyone finds out. Hide it. Handle it alone.” Past experiences of rejection or being told to “keep it secret” can push people deeper into isolation.

But secrecy feeds addiction. It leads to more guilt, more shame, and greater dependence on destructive habits. God’s Word offers the opposite:

“Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed.” (James 5:16)

Healing begins in honesty—with God and with trusted community. In the light, the cycle of shame breaks, and grace begins to rebuild what storms have eroded.

Storms will come. Stress, grief, loss, trauma, temptation—they’re unavoidable. But if we begin laying a foundation now, with habits anchored in God’s Word, we won’t collapse when the rain falls.

Jesus said:

“Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock.” (Matthew 7:24–25)

Our habits are the daily bricks of that foundation—small choices surrendered to God. They may seem insignificant in calm weather, but when the storm rages, they are the difference between standing firm and being washed away.

Keep Moving

 

The hot days of summer are here again—my favorite time of year. The sun warms everything it touches, the days stretch long and bright, and the water… oh, the water becomes a place of healing, movement, and strength.

Most evenings, you’ll find me in the pool—not just floating lazily (although there’s joy in that too), but stretching, strengthening, moving in ways my body often resists on land. The water holds me up. It softens the impact, cushions the pressure, and gently allows movement where there might otherwise be pain.

And in this rhythm—slow motion beneath the surface, sunlight overhead—I’m reminded of something vital:
I need to keep moving.

“She dresses herself with strength and makes her arms strong.”
— Proverbs 31:17, ESV

Muscles, when unused, grow stiff. Weak. Brittle. And the same is true for our faith, our emotions, and our spiritual endurance. When hardship, fatigue, or aging tempt us to stay still—to retreat from the discomfort of movement—our strength quietly slips away. But when we move with grace, especially in the right environment, our strength is preserved. Even restored.

And for me, that environment has been the pool.

In the water, I can stretch longer, lift more gently, and build endurance without harming my joints. The resistance is real, but so is the support. The water itself becomes a partner in the process. It lifts where gravity pulls. It steadies where balance wavers. It creates space for growth where there would otherwise be pain.

Isn’t that exactly how God works?

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you…”
— Isaiah 43:1–2a, ESV

There are seasons where the Lord places us in environments that allow us to keep moving, even when we feel fragile. He surrounds us with support—through community, creation, His Word, and His presence. Like water, He creates space for movement without harm. He doesn’t demand sprinting, but He invites steady motion.

Keep moving, daughter of God.
Even if it’s slow.
Even if it’s small.
Even if it looks different from how you moved before.

“In him we live and move and have our being…”
— Acts 17:28a, ESV

This summer has reminded me that movement is a form of worship. Stretching these arms, lifting these legs, breathing deeply beneath the sun—it’s all a declaration: I am still alive. I am still able. I am still pressing forward.

Yes, there are seasons for rest and stillness. But there are also seasons where God gently whispers,
"Strengthen what remains" (Revelation 3:2).
Seasons when the water is His grace, and our movement—however quiet—is obedience.

So I’ll keep moving in the water.
I’ll keep stretching what’s tight.
I’ll keep building what’s weak.
I’ll keep honoring this body and this soul that He gave me.

And I’ll trust that in every small motion, He’s meeting me there.
Supporting me. Strengthening me.
And preparing me for whatever comes next.

Tending My Garden: Creating Spiritually Healthy Routines for the Soul, Body, and Mind

There’s a little patch of earth I call mine.

It’s not perfect, not even fancy, but it’s my garden planted with care, visited by bees and birds, brushed by the breeze, and rooted in a quiet place of reflection.

I often go there to pull weeds, water plants, or just sit still. But more than that, I go there to meet with God.

And I’ve realized something, my garden is more than soil and seeds.

It’s a reflection of my soul.

As I walk among the flowers, herbs, and vegetables, I’m reminded of how spiritual growth happens. Just like my garden, my soul needs tending. Weeds of worry, thorns of bitterness, dry patches of neglect, they creep in quickly when I'm not intentional.

But when I consistently water, pull weeds, and let the sun in, life returns. Growth begins again.

 “And the Lord will guide you continually and satisfy your desire in scorched places and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters do not fail.” —Isaiah 58:11, ESV

I’m learning that spiritually healthy routines are not about perfection or performance. They’re about partnership with the Gardener of my soul. God doesn’t demand a manicured lawn—He desires a surrendered heart.

A healthy garden starts with good soil.

And our spiritual lives start with the Word of God.

Just as seeds must be planted, God’s truth must be sown in our hearts.

“The seed is the word of God.” —Luke 8:11, ESV

 “I have stored up your word in my heart, that I might not sin against you.” —Psalm 119:11, ESV

My routine looks like this:

 I read a passage in the morning, even if it’s short.

 I write a verse in a journal or on a sticky note for the day.

 I take time to be silent. In my garden or by my window. No agenda—just stillness with the Lord.

 I pray honest prayers. Not polished. Just real.

These habits water my roots. Even if I don’t see instant blooms, I trust the underground work of God.

Working in the garden reminds me how much our **bodies matter to God.

Pulling weeds, carrying watering cans, digging in the dirt—it’s movement. It’s effort. And some days I feel the strain. But it’s good strain—life-giving strain.

 “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God?” —1 Corinthians 6:19, ESV

Simple ways I care for my body like a garden:

I move with purpose—gardening, walking, stretching in the morning.

I hydrate as I would water a plant.

I eat foods that give energy, not just satisfy cravings.

I rest—deep rest—knowing even gardens need Sabbath.

 You don’t have to look like the world’s idea of “fit” to be well. You just need to steward what God gave you with grace and consistency.

In gardening, pruning is painful but necessary. It helps the plant grow healthier and stronger. The same is true of our thoughts.

 “We destroy arguments and every lofty opinion raised against the knowledge of God, and take every thought captive to obey Christ.” —2 Corinthians 10:5, ESV

My mind can wander into places of fear, comparison, or distraction. But I’ve learned to prune those thoughts by:

Memorizing Scripture that speaks truth into my anxious places.

Taking walks in silence, letting my thoughts settle like dust.

Speaking gratitude aloud for even the smallest blessings.

Sharing openly with a trusted friend or mentor.

Mental health matters because your thoughts shape your steps. A garden with overgrowth becomes tangled and fruitless. But one that is trimmed and trained becomes fruitful and focused.

Every gardener knows there are things they can control—and many they can’t.

Rain doesn’t always come. Pests invade. Some seeds never sprout.

But still—we plant. We trust. We wait.

 “I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth.” —1 Corinthians 3:6, ESV

God is the Master Gardener of our lives. He sees where we need sun, where we need pruning, and where we need patience.

And He never abandons the work of His hands.

So I invite you today:

Start your own routine of spiritual tending.  Maybe not with soil and seeds—but with stillness, scripture, movement, prayer, and grace.

Let your soul breathe.

Let your thoughts be pruned.

Let your body rest and move in balance.

Let God walk with you in your garden, as He once did with Adam and Eve in Eden.

Because this garden—your soul—was made to flourish.

 “And they heard the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day…” —Genesis 3:8, ESV

Even after the Fall, God still came looking for His people in the garden.

He still comes.

He still walks.

Will you meet Him there?

I Blew It. Now What? When You Lose Your Cool—and Your Husband Pushes Your Buttons

 

I blew it.

My anger and rage came crashing down like a sudden summer storm—loud, chaotic, and impossible to ignore. The kind that stirs up dust, bends the trees, and leaves everything in disarray.

Our poor dog even tucked his tail and ran for cover. But it was my husband who received the full force of my mother-bear rage. You know the one: “You’re not cooperating with our goals! When was the last time you set time aside for God? Why aren’t you leading this family spiritually? It’s not my job to carry all the weight!”

I let the storm inside of me speak louder than the Spirit within me. And after the winds settled, what remained wasn’t peace—it was regret.

The words poured out fast. And just as quickly, I regretted them.
Here we are, in the older season of our marriage, and still… I lose my cool.

We’ve walked through so much together. We’ve faced trials, prayed over big decisions, and now we’re trying to live in such a way that reflects Jesus more and more—especially to our children and grandchildren.

But sometimes, if I’m honest, it feels like I’m the only one fighting for that vision.
And that’s where the problem begins: what I feel, what I perceive, what I think he should be doing.

There’s a difference between observing and judging. Between godly concern and emotional pressure. I’ve had to face this hard truth:

Just because I don’t see God working in him the way I expect,
doesn’t mean God isn’t working.

Just because I carry things differently doesn’t mean my husband is failing.
And just because I feel burdened doesn’t mean he’s ignoring God.
I’m not the Holy Spirit.
It’s not my job to evaluate his spiritual temperature or hold him accountable for everything I think he’s not doing.

That’s God’s role. Not mine.

In our older years, we want to leave behind something meaningful. We want our legacy to echo Christ. We want our marriage to preach the gospel—without words. But I can’t accomplish that by controlling, criticizing, or constantly correcting.

Instead, I’m learning (again) to let go of my expectations and cling tighter to the promises of God.

“The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to be silent.”
—Exodus 14:14 (ESV)

There is peace when I surrender the role of judge and return to the role of wife.
There is grace when I trust the pace of the Holy Spirit—not my own timetable.
There is joy when I stop replaying what he isn’t doing and start remembering what God is already doing—in both of us.

Here are some Scriptures I return to when I need help refocusing my heart and working on memorizing:

When I feel like the spiritual burden is all on me:

“For your Maker is your husband, the Lord of hosts is his name…”
—Isaiah 54:5

“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.”
—Psalm 73:26

When I’m tempted to speak too much:

“A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.”
—Proverbs 15:1

“Let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger; for the anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God.”
—James 1:19–20

When I need to step back and let God work:

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding.”
—Proverbs 3:5

“Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him…”
—Psalm 37:7

What do I want to leave behind for my children and grandchildren?

Not a perfect image.
Not a list of spiritual accomplishments.
Not stories about how I got everything right.

I want them to see a woman who surrendered often, repented freely, and trusted God deeply.
I want them to know that faith isn’t about appearances—it’s about abiding.
And I want them to see that a wife can walk in strength and dignity, even when her husband walks a different pace.

To the woman in her later years—who’s walked decades of marriage, who has learned the rhythm of compromise and the ache of unmet expectations, who’s longing to reflect Jesus well in this quieter season of life:

You are not invisible.
You are not foolish for still hoping.
You are not called to be your husband’s Holy Spirit.

You are called to live faithfully, love quietly, speak wisely, and trust deeply.

Let your life whisper the gospel to your husband, your children, and your grandchildren. Your legacy is not in how perfect your marriage looked—it’s in how surrendered your heart was, how forgiving your words became, how gentle your strength grew.

And to the woman in her early years of marriage—tired from sleepless nights and toddler tantrums, trying to raise your children to know Jesus, while feeling like you’re carrying the spiritual weight alone:

I see you.

I was you.

I know the sting of praying alone. I know the heartbreak of longing for your husband to take the lead, to initiate prayer at bedtime, to be the one who says, “Let’s open God’s Word.” I know the frustration of feeling like you’re building the house of faith with bricks made of exhaustion.

And here's what I want to tell you:

Keep building.

Even when it feels one-sided.
Even when you blow it.
Even when your words come out sharp instead of soft.
Even when you wonder if your husband will ever step into his role.

God sees you. God hears every whispered prayer over your babies. And God is far more patient and faithful with your family than you can imagine.

You don’t have to carry everything. You just have to carry it to Jesus.

And one day—when your house is quieter, when your kids are grown—you’ll look back and see that your faithfulness wasn’t wasted. It was planted.

You’ll see little seeds becoming trees of righteousness.
You’ll see God at work in places your eyes missed but your prayers never left.

So wherever you are in your journey—early years or later years—
Whether you feel like you’ve got it together or like you just blew it again—
God’s grace is still yours.
His mercy is still new.
His plan is still unfolding.

“The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to be silent.”
—Exodus 14:14

Let’s finish this race well, dear sister.
Not by striving harder—but by surrendering deeper.
Not by demanding more—but by trusting more.

Your home is His.
Your husband is His.
Your children and grandchildren are His.
And so are you.

Held.
Loved.
Known.
Growing in grace.

Always.